


The Withering of His Grace

by andywarholwasahoarder



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, DANCING and MURDER (in a sexy way of course), Fluff, In which they don't go to Troy, M/M, Prophecy, ao3 put my tags in order please and thank you, it's an old song it's a tragedy we're gonna sing it again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andywarholwasahoarder/pseuds/andywarholwasahoarder
Summary: “I do not think I could bear it,” he said, at last. His eyes were closed, as if against horrors. I knew he spoke not of his death, but of the nightmare Odysseus had spun, the loss of his brilliance, the withering of his grace. I had seen the joy he took in his own skill, the roaring vitality that was always just beneath the surface. Who was he if not miraculous and radiant? Who was he if not destined for fame?- Madeline Miller, The Song of AchillesAchilles chooses to become king of Phthia instead of fighting at Troy. He returns home and takes the throne while grappling with the prophecy's promise: that he has doomed himself to mortality. What follows is a vicious court, cheese pastries, a sun god's wrath, and how to be happy, if not a hero.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sparrowsong07](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowsong07/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I will have no part in this war." ___  
> Decisions are made, oaths are broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this AU idea for a long time and I've finally got around to writing it.
> 
> I'll update once a week at minimum. Hope y'all like it.

For a short moment after I had awaken, sleep blurred everything to a pleasant fuzziness. The sun had just begun to rise. The world was still small. Then, memory returns: Today we are to leave for Troy.

Achilles, already up, turned to me and said, “I am going to see my mother.” He seemed near nervousness. As if to compensate for his lack of it, I had twice the usual amount of this. To see it on Achilles was strange. It did not suit him.

We both took sudden interests in spots on the wall where the paint was chipped. I stared like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. My eyes burned but I did not want to blink. I felt that if I were not careful I would knock something over, and it would shatter.

Still examining the paint, he said quietly, “I would not blame you if you change your mind.” He searched for words. “I hope you will go with me, of course. But I would not blame you.”

“I have promised.” It was not the sort of thing you spoke aloud, but I felt it necessary. I also felt, though I did not know it, that I was running out of time to speak. “I will follow you anywhere. I will follow you to the end of the world.” I glanced at him. Quickly, because it did not feel safe.

He swallowed. “I am afraid I am going to have to hold you to that.”

I slumped back down. I supposed all there was to do was waiting. I traced my fingers over the cracks in the wall.

I placed my hand on my throat and spoke into the room. I wanted to feel the hum of my voice and recognize it as proof of my existence. But I could not even recognize it as mine.

In my head I knew: He will be dead. He will be dead and I will be this.

Another voice of mine: He will be dead, and I will follow.

These and others echoed themselves. They chased each angrily. I thought of Asphodel, of fields full with chattering spirits who could not remember who they were.

I hit the table beside me. It hurt (somehow this surprised me) and I held up my stinging fist. My hands were trembling.

In the end all I managed to convince myself of was breakfast.

***

I have not attended a meal like this since my father’s home. My mother had laughed the entire dinner, her mouth wide open, her teeth like pearls, and her eyes dull. My father had the look of a man who bet a great deal of money on a racehorse and lost. He rarely ate with us. He had guests to entertain and affairs to deal with. That was the word he always used, affairs. I still did not know what he meant by that, though I had dreamed up a great many possibilities.

Lycomedes ate with us always, perhaps because he had no “affairs” to attend to on tiny, dying Scyros. Today we ate well; there was crumbly cheese and flatbread, stew, fruit. I was grateful for the opportunity to not speak. I cleared my plate and licked my fork in a hopeless effort to shield myself behind the food.

“Where is Achilles?” Deidameia said next to me. Her bracelets jangled far louder than they should as she cut up her meat. She had such small hands.

“He has gone to speak with his mother.”

I had thought it would perhaps improve things for her to not have him here, but now she turned her narrow gaze on me.

“He is leaving, then?” Her hands--such small hands--tightened their grip on her fork, and I worried slightly she may stab me.

“Yes.”

“You are to go with him?”

“Yes.”

She looked at me and I looked away. She searched my face, but for what I did not know, and she did not find it.

As soon as Lycomedes finished eating I stood, knocking over a cup. I righted it and left. I was not conscious of my direction, unsettled as I was, but I found myself by the shore.

Dark cliffs greasy with salt water bordered Scyros’s sea. It was like the mouth of a giant, the snare of a trap. The rock scraped my hands as I climbed. I hauled myself over the side.

Achilles was speaking with his mother. He stood without fear or deceit, his hands open by his side. Thetis spoke rapidly in her scraping tone. She nearly shook with wrath but also her own sort of caring. _He must not go._ Strange, I thought, that she and I were the same in this.

She reached out and grasped his shoulders. Her grip was clumsy, desperate as she studied the brightness of his face. Mother and son were like the sun and the moon.

I was intruding, I realized. Thetis noticed my disturbance first, then Achilles after a sliver of a second’s delay. They turned to me.

I stepped back without thinking as if jerked by a string pulled taut. Achilles caught my wrist before I fell, before I realized I was going to fall.

Thetis did not allow us a pause. “Well?” she said. She had the same severe cut of bones as Achilles, but they pulled against her skin like they did not quite fit underneath. I wondered if in another time he could ever become this. I wondered if he were to eat the world raw, if the blood would drip down his chin, if divinity would stain his fingertips. I wondered if it would decay the flesh to expose what lay below, if it would be the true face and beauty of a god, if it would kill whoever looked upon it. I wondered if I would rather have him dead or wickedly immortal or neither.

Achilles nodded, and she smiled. I half-expected her teeth to be sharp. They were not. “I will have no place in this war.”

Later I wondered if I had imagined this--she touched her forehead to his. “You must leave now. These men--these _Greeks_ , I filled in--know no fairness in their game. They will try and take you by force.”

“They will try,” Achilles said.

She opened her mouth as if to argue, but decided against it. Instead, she said, “I ask you again. Leave alone, please. The mortal is bound to Troy.”

“He swore under a different name.”

She glanced at me. Those sharp bones shifted, writhing, into the furious gaze they usually held. Next to the sea, the knowledge that she could drown me on any whim was more glaring than ever. “He will be dead soon anyway.” With this, she left us.

***

"This is what you talked of. Fame.” I wanted to accept his words. I wanted to touch him to make sure he was real. But I was hopelessly stubborn. I demanded it be his free choice, not mine or his mother’s or the Fates’.

“I choose not to be a hero.” I thought of him telling me to name one hero who was happy. He was going to be the first.

“I choose to be happy,” he went on. How could I begrudge him of that?

“I do not think you could be happily forgotten.”

He tilted his head, something dark flashing in his eyes. “Who says I will be forgotten? There are other wars. There are other ways.” 

"There is no other war. Not like this. The prophecy cannot be cheated.”

“Prophecies are made for cheating, like the gambler and his game. My mother has persuaded me of one thing; she is correct in this matter. Your name may be different than when you promised to fight, but the blood is the same. We have already broken an oath. Why not a prophecy?” He did not even sound convinced himself.

So many reasons. It had never been done. In our stories, those who cheated the gods paid back double what they had taken. It was a terrible idea, insane.

“Why not?” I agreed.

***

We walked side by side on the burning sand. 

"I will have to tell Odysseus."

I nodded. "Gods help us."

"Gods help us," he echoed. 

***

As I stepped onto the stone of the palace floor, a delicious iciness flooded me. The knot in my chest eased and I stretched my arms out, savoring whatever giddy shock rattled through me.

We rounded the corner to find a guard standing in the middle of the hall. Achilles stiffened. 

"Good morning," he said to the guard, in his girl's voice.

"What are you doing here?"

As I struggled to find an answer I heard a knock. I turned to find Achilles had slipped away and was standing in front of a door at the far end of the hall. He raised his fist and knocked again.

Odysseus opened the door. He was no doubt about to make some sort of remark, _what a lovely surprise_ or _please, not the two of you again_ , when Achilles cut him off by announcing he was set to depart for Phthia.

“Yes, I know. We are to make a stop there mid-voyage.”

“No.”

Odysseus set down a map. He knew. I saw it on his face. “Well.” He walked to a crate packed with cloth scrolls. He selected a few and held them out. “If you are to be king, believe me when I say it is not as amusing of a job as it may seem.” 

Achilles took them. We looked at each other, then at Odysseus. “Good day, _Basileus_ ,” he said. I was amazed. I had never heard a king’s title used in such a way. It would not be the last.

“ _Basileus_ ,” Achilles repeated thoughtfully. I did not have the heart to tell him it had been used in mockery.

***

The ship Lycomedes leant us was slim and sturdy. (Diomedes refused to let us sail with him and Odysseus. I found I was content with that.) We boarded and found a warm place on the deck. Achilles sat and I joined him. In the distance I thought I could see a war trireme, bound for Troy, but I blinked and it had vanished into the fog.

Night came, and we slept in a cabin with the rowers. In the morning Achilles sprinted up and down the length of the deck. We ate fruit preserves and hard bread and cured meat. We watched the rowers, and once we joined them. I tired soon and watched Achilles work the oars, which I found more enjoyable.

Achilles studied the notes, reports, and letters Odysseus gave him in fits and starts. Most of the time he skimmed while leaning against a piece of furniture, or the column that ran through the center of the cabin, or me. Not one for confinement, his fingers tapped restlessly.

“There are four noble families that control Thessaly.”

I frowned. “Why do you have to know of all Thessaly?”

“We may not make up a great portion of Thessaly, but we are just as much victim to the changes that come to it.” He set down the scroll. “Four families. I must secure their friendship. I cannot bribe or bully them. I am no great artist of persuasion.”

“There must be something you can offer them. Phthia is not poor.”

“We owe three million drachma to Sesklo. Rapidly accumulating interest, mind you.”

“Ah,” I said, in my best scholarly way.

He rubbed his eyes. “Patroclus, promise me your help in this.”

“I can make an attempt. I cannot promise more in good conscience,” I said with a dubious look at his tiny, cramped writing filling the margins.

He smiled. “I disagree. I think you could be excellent at this.”

“When have I ever shown an affinity for,” I picked up a stray budget sheet, “mathematics?”

He read over my shoulder. “Where?”

I point.

“See, you already excel in this. I have no choice but to appoint you as my personal counsel.”

I pretended to ponder it. “What does the position entail?”

“Easy. You do all of the talking and reading. I stand there and look nice.”

“Is it not the other way around?”

“I can pay.” He leaned closer, then--

“Do you think I will make a good king?”

I opened my mouth to say yes, of course, but I faltered. He shrugged, unoffended. “I do not.”

I was not sure what to say, so I settled for the truth. “I think they will remember you.”

“I will make sure of it.”

After this we said many things but talked of nothing, his ankle hooked around mine. He was asleep in minutes. I wondered if he would wear a crown. I wrapped my arm around his shoulder and pulled a bit. The motion shifted his weight onto me. We were still.

***

Phthia looked the same as we had left it. I thought it eerie, like the city was made of glass and we were but smoke.

We walked instead of buying horses. If we wanted we could be in the palace by late afternoon, but neither of us were in a hurry. We went through odd alleys and bought cheese pastries and stayed the night at a hostel instead.

The room had only a single lamp. Achilles blew it out, and we lay down to rest.

***

“Patroclus.” His voice, clear and soft, split the darkness like a knife.

“Yes?” I reply.

“There is something in the room.”

I was not frightened. No mortal would present danger. _Is this how it is for you, Achilles? Knowing nothing can touch you or take things from you? It is not anymore, though. I have taken this from you._

No mortal.

The ghosts of hands ran down my bones. I felt cold. My fear conjured a thousand images, furies and curses and broken oaths. I reached out and touched his wrist. His quickening pulse matched mine.

Thunder somewhere, but no rain.

He did not let go of me. “My mother used to tell me the sky is a massive monster. An ancient serpent who catches and feeds on us.” I understood what he asked, to trade stories and ignore the weeping thing in the corner with long gray fingers and no face.

Above us the sky raged, writhing like a sea monster caught in a net. We lay stricken and sleepless as the hours passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a lot with Achilles deciding against going to Troy. Fame is fucking _everything_ to him.The books (both TSOA and the Iliad) really hammer the point that he had no other option. There were no other wars like Troy, no other wars that would grant him immortality. So for him to choose this seems pretty out of character, right? Well. The justification behind it here is rather lacking but I swear there's more to it and it'll be in later chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral and a coronation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes I waited until the very last second to make my one-update-a-week deadline, whatcha gonna do about it?
> 
> some vocab:  
> bier: a movable frame on which a coffin or a corpse is placed before burial or cremation or on which it is carried to the grave.

Tradition dictated Thetis should tend to the rites, but we did not harbor any illusions as to her presence at the funeral. I remembered when, years ago, I had first met the king. He seemed to me then impossibly old. It was rare to live to such an age. I knew death as blood, brains, viscera spilling out of broken skin and skull. But the disease in Peleus was one of frail hands and milky eyes, and I confess I was unnerved.

The fear rose now, thick in my throat as I watched Achilles tend to his father’s body. A servant had used cosmetics to try and return some color before it was laid out for viewing. Unfortunately, it had worked; the body of the old king was far too lifelike for comfort.

I stood next to the head priest, _Archiereus_ Theides, in a large, high-ceilinged foyer. At the far end of the room, the body was laid out on a bier. Achilles and three women in dark robes stood around it. The women chanted and wept; they were Peleus’ cousins and aunt. The aunt was in front of the other two, standing where a wife or a mother or perhaps a daughter should stand. It was a meager showing of kin for such a beloved king. His wife was a goddess. His son was a demigod. But he had just the handful of mourners.

There were many spectators, of course. Senators, noblemen, and the other foster children were with the priest and I. They had all come to show their respect. But we did not cry for him.

Achilles raised his hand, and the chanting ceased. “My father was not only a wise king, but a kind one...” he began his speech. Achilles’ voice shook slightly but he did not weep, did not allow himself. Diomedes had made good on his threat, and the word had spread. Achilles wore women’s clothes. He had the slender hands and delicate movements and soft voice of a woman. He was a coward, he was weak, he was _girlish_. Such things were deadly insults; revenge was often swift and violent.

***

He had come to me late one night, his features marred by anger. His immortal reputation, already beginning to slip away. I had held him and turned his face to mine. I tried to keep the uneasiness I felt from showing on my face. “Wait.” I had told him. “Wait until they see you fight.”

“I will make them all see,” he said.

And so the next morning, when the rumors were different, I almost wondered if I had cursed the old king.

The king is sick, they said. His eyes are milky and his mind slow. Some talked of a blood sickness, others of fever. A servant, one of the king’s personal attendants, was caught whispering of fits. He was silenced. Fits came from curses. They came from vengeful gods.

The quiet, constant drip of time had stalked us. It allowed us no silence. We heard it in the way the men gathered around Achilles, moved out of the way as he walked.

I thought he might have enjoyed it if it had been earned, through war or glory instead of a contest for the favor of the crown prince. Soon to be king.

Although Peleus was well-liked, a strange anticipation surrounded his death.

Achilles was not well liked. He was worshipped. Not as a hero, as a king. The difference pained him.

There was also simply the offensive, near-ludicrous lack of hesitancy for some to cast aside Peleus, who had made Phthia prosper in his thirty-year reign, and pounce upon Achilles.

A merchant had approached Achilles and begun talking business. Grain shortages in the west and gold in the east. Achilles and I had been on our way to the dining hall. He sped up. The merchant sped up and continued babbling. Achilles sped up. The merchant seized Achilles by the arm.

Achilles turned. The merchant let go of him, surprised and scared in a way that was supremely satisfying to me. “My father is dying!” Achilles yelled. The merchant took a step back.

Achilles closed his eyes. I saw the struggle on his face as he forced his voice lower. “But he is not dead yet. I would request you act like it. _Sir_.”

Perhaps I was horrible, but there was a part of me that wished it would go on ahead and happen. The wait, the doubt, was excruciating.

***

Dark came, not long after Achilles’ speech, and with it _ekphora_ : the funeral procession. Four servants lifted the bier. Achilles followed, then the three dark-robed women, then the crowd. We filed out and into the street. We walked in no particular formation. Most of us were barefoot on the rough gravel. A thousand feet rose and fell.

We arrived at the burial ground by the time the full night arrived. I was thankful for the light of the stars, because without it I was liable to trip into someone.

A grave had been dug, and the body was lowered into it. Achilles produced a knife and cut a lock of hair. He poured wine and oil, first for the gods and second for his father. Last was the prayer. He was quiet afterwards for a minute, then he blinked hard, as if bracing himself, and stepped back for the rest of us to make our offerings. Milk, honey, fruit.

After the crowd was thick enough for me to do so without being noticed, I went to look for Achilles. I found him at the edge of the grounds, where the field met the road.

“Are you alright?”

He nodded. “My father is in Elysium.”

“Where the water is sweet and cold.”

“And the springs never end.”

***

There was to be a period of mourning. A month where we wore black, and ate at Peleus’ table.

I soon realized, however, that this was meant as a period of preparation. A period of deals done in whispered words and not ink. A period of grace. I thought of the hunter drawing a bow, the deer with its head bent an elegant arc, the sinking of the arrow.

We slept late in the mornings. I listened to his heartbeat, savoring it. We had won time from the Fates and we were going to use it. Plus he would have to move to the king’s chambers after the coronation.

Today was different. Achilles woke me early and said, “Get dressed. We are visiting a lady.” When I gave no response, he opened the curtains.

Light assaulted my eyes. I threw my arm over my face while making all manner of unintelligible noises. “Why does this concern me?”

“You are my personal secretary, of course,” he replied glibly. I groaned. “You are my closest companion and adviser.” A smile slips out. “Or that is what I tell people.”

We depart for the countryside. An hour’s riding after, a mansion comes into view.

Achilles knocked on the door. A woman with tan skin and black, curly hair appeared on the doorstep. “You best be the king himself if you want me at this horrible hour of the morning.”

Achilles extended his hand. “Nice to meet you. I like your house.”

“Mansion, actually,” she said.

“Are you certain?”

“We have a fountain, of course it’s a mansion.” With this she retreated into her house, waving us inside.

We exchanged a glance, then followed.

She led us into a sitting room of some kind. We sat across from her on a couch. She lay across hers, legs propped up on the armrest.

“Corinna, get us some tea,” she called into the hallway. A moment later an elderly woman brought a tray laden with drinks.

I drank my tea while they chatted. It tasted of lemons. I listened the best I could and learned her name was Niobe. She was the head of one of the four great families of Thessaly.

“You are the head of household?” Achilles said. There was a note of surprise hidden in the question.

“My husband is dead.”

"I am sorry to hear that.”

And on they went. My hands were warm from the tea and I drifted into the comfortable gray between sleep and wakefulness. I pulled myself back into alertness in time to hear them close their agreement.

“Friends, then?” she said.

“Friends.”

***

It was high noon.

Achilles reached the top of the marble temple steps.

His white robes were covered in lamb’s blood from the sacrifice and his face cracked open into a grin. He reminded me of a war god, a priestess, and a fury. The first thing I thought is that he is beautiful like this. The second is that he was never going to escape the war.

He raised his hand in oath, in triumph, and the people cheered for their new king.

***

Later, he asked me what he was like.

The sun on his face. A crown on his head.

“You were magnificent.”

He smiled at me. His face was full of boyish pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diomedes' threat: _"Then we make this known." Diomedes lifted Achilles' discarded dress. Achilles flushed as if he'd been struck. It was one thing to wear a dress out of necessity, another thing for the world to know of it. Our people reserved their ugliest names for men whoa acted like women; lives were lost over such insults._ pg. 163, The Song of Achilles


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters between Achilles and Patroclus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes it's been a while. No I am not sorry. Yes I will get back on my update schedule.
> 
> some vocab:  
> delphinium: Delphinium is a genus of about 300 species of perennial flowering plants in the family Ranunculaceae, native throughout the Northern Hemisphere and also on the high mountains of tropical Africa. The genus was erected by Carl Linnaeus. All members of the genus Delphinium are toxic to humans and livestock.

Patroclus,

Delphi is beautiful. Violet and blue flowers are everywhere.

The meetings are not dull as you might expect. They are both fascinating and impossible. It is like in Chiron’s lessons. Would you kill to save another? What if the people are not from your country, does that matter? Chiron said nations are useless inventions. Aristotle said the law should create moral citizens, but how do you define law? How do you define moral? How do you define citizen? I imagine I am fighting a hydra.

The men do not trust me. I am too young. I am too-–how is it you put it? War-like. Draft-bait. Food for the fishes. I suppose that is one thing to be said for the classical education I never paid much mind too: it earns me a small ounce of respect. Speak plainly, I ask, but it merely prompts them to rephrase in a hushed, confidential tone. It is maddening. I wish you were with me. I need my adviser. I also need to eat candied almonds.

I hope you are not already growing tired of the palace. I would hate for you to run off with some farm boy.

***

Achilles,

I have heard of the delphiniums. They seem like magic. They _are_ magic. What else have I heard of this peculiar, charming place? I know. I have heard the gods are close to the ground.

I remember those lessons. We were silent. But now you must give an answer to those who demand them. Heracles slew the hydra with the help of Iolaus. He decapitated the beast’s ninth head and buried it under a rock. You will not fight this hydra alone.

Sometimes I forget you were raised in a court. You do not show it. But that is alright.

I must admit my days are occupied by a strange, liquid sort of boredom. It sneaks in though the cracks in the windows and under doors and fills all the crooked places. But it pleasant, mostly. I am tan and freckled now with all the time I spend in the sun. I walk in the hills and I eat in the same hall from all those years ago. I would hate for you to run off with some politician, now that my complexion is ruined. Of course, his name is Marcus and he is a good head taller than you.

***

Patroclus,

Gods, I deserve better. Someone like your Marcus, perhaps. Everyone I meet is ancient. Relics, practically. ~~I think I am afraid of growing old.~~ I think a strong wind, or a well-placed kick to the ankles would topple them and they would shatter into a million tiny pieces like a vase. I am tempted to try and find out for myself, sometimes, when they are particularly irritating. But I am patient. I am learning. Are you not proud of me?

And it was not so many years. Five, if I count correctly. I do understand, though. Five is far too few. We should have had more.

Here is something: Do you know of the boy Kyros? He is one of my father’s foster boys. Small and wide-eyed. The courier mentioned he caught him sneaking letters out of the messenger bag. (The wax seals are unbroken. He did not succeed.) So our dear Kyros can read. This is rather unusual, but nothing worthy of suspicion yet. Perhaps he is some disgraced prince. Sorry, was that too soon? My father did have a knack for those. But why my letters? The boys are not often allowed out; they see little outside of limestone walls and mess halls, training drills and servant girls.

Thank you for the bag of candied almonds. They were sweet and torturous. I cannot wait to eat Phthian food again.

***

Achilles,

I have a challenge for you. I want you to prove them wrong. I want you to prove them all wrong. Everyone who thinks you are not enough. I want you to end them all for daring indifference toward the most captivating fucking person I know.

Achilles, we were all small and wide-eyed. Drawn to you like a blind man who cannot see the sun but can feel its warmth, who opens his eyes and discovers he is not blind after all. It hurt a little, to look at you. The world drowning in pale ivory and gold, so much _light_ , all the angles and lines drawn in glassy color.

Too soon? A little. Where I am from, besides the sons of kings and nobles, the only boys who are taught to read are the ones who cannot wrestle or run or spar. I know who you speak of and he seems to match this description. Sickly and silent. Maybe he was training to become a tradesman or scholar, before.

***

Patroclus,

I quite like your challenge. Thank you for that. It has made me bold. I shall play to my strengths and be utterly sincere, like you said. My honesty is rewarded with a mix of alarm and approval.

I paid a visit to Diocles of the house of Aetos. I know we already have an ally in Niobe Cirides, but although she is hideously rich, the weight of her name has been lost with her husband. Diocles moved here from Athens, which they say is the cradle of democracy, and he retains these ideals of his homeland. The most radical of his lot don’t think there should be a king at all. As a result he was rather cold to me. In the name of honesty I said, most casually, “I’ll kill you.” I did not know if it would sway him. Diocles has had many threats and attempts on his life because he has no children and so his relatives are dying to take his place. But something about my expression must have convinced him because next thing I knew he was shaking my hand like we were the best of friends.

I am the sun, you say? If I am Apollo, you are Hyacinth. We shall never play discus together.

Keep an eye on the boy, will you?

***

Achilles,

Poor Diocles. You do have that effect on people. It is difficult to picture you like this. Is it wrong I still see you as a prince?

Will do. I watch the boys train sometimes, when I have the time. I have observed Kyros is the weakest of them, but he has a surprising amount of ardor in him. He may struggle to hold up his sword and shield, but he attacks relentlessly.

I also sit in at the medicine hall. One of the nursemaids, Agatha, teaches me how to dress wounds and cool fevers. She says if I master these I can move on to setting bones. There is nothing like it. Press your thumb into the back of your hand, feel the muscles working. It is nothing short of a miracle. I find I enjoy not being useless.

***

Patroclus,

Do you know how I learned to swim? When I was small, my father and I went down the river. I took of my tunic. He was gone. I frowned and called for him. That is when he pushed me. Right now we are helpless as the brackish water fills our mouths, but the surface will break.

As my companion, medicine is a useful skill for certain. One day, I am sure, I will horribly injure myself and you will sew me up. If you do not mind I should like to see you work. I admire anyone who takes to healing.

***

Patroclus,

Today I killed a man. When he lay crumpled on the marble floor he did not look any different than an animal felled by an arrow. I found myself reaching for a hunting knife, to skin the creature and cut out the best parts of meat. Then I shook myself and he was a man again.

My hands were steady. There was no great rush of excitement or sorrow. I suppose this is how it feels, to do what you were born for. Some would call it a waste of a gift. I would have made such a warrior. The two of us, our miracle hands. One for hurting and the other for healing.

I think of Troy, when I am trying to sleep. If the Greeks are winning, or if the walls of Troy hold. If Odysseus bickers still so cheerfully with Diomedes, or if they are quiet now. If anyone has caught a glimpse of the lovely Helen. I hear she wears a veil.

I promised Diocles I would kill him. I wanted to be a man of my word.

I do not think of myself differently. Will you, now? I would not blame you.

Before I return to you, I am going to see the Oracle of Delphi.

***

Patroclus,

I have seen oracles before. I have seen women with judgmental lavender eyes and white linen dresses, royal priestesses who divine the stars and the entrails of birds, fallen priestesses of Apollo on the street, who laugh and laugh on mad honey. But I have never–-

I paid my coin and waited in line. The Oracle has no favor for kings.

I was lead through hallways and hallways all beautifully painted and shining as a temple should be. At last we stopped in front of a doorway.

The room was small but the ceiling high. She sat on a simple stool. She wore a long dress and veil. Everything was covered in fine white powder, like if ash were the color of chalk. I felt dirty as I stepped though the doorway, like I was intruding. The Oracle was singing to herself.

“Oracle, tell me my future.”

She stopped. Her head, which had been listing to one side as if it was too heavy for her body, snapped up. Her hands went to her veil. Her face was of my mother. She saw me.

And she began to weep.

It was terrible. She cried for Eurydice and Cassandra and Persephone. It was never-ending. _That_ , I thought, _is the sound of the death._ Then–- _No. That is the sound of a mother’s grief._

I reached out, as if to comfort her. She stopped, suddenly, and grabbed my open hand. Nothing happened for a few seconds. She blinked, as if considering. She let go of me.

I turned and left.

I will see you soon. I am on way back to the city.

Apollo, after killing the Python, transformed her into a woman. He sung a voice into her strangled throat. In his wrath he cursed her, held her body up as a sacrifice and made her into the first Pythia.


End file.
